In Paris
by glassweb
Summary: Mickey's not quite sure where he stands with Jake, but it seems to be going ok so far. Very understated jm with some dr fr the hell of it.


There's snow falling in Paris. Well, it looks like it anyway, in the pre-dawn dark, through a window dotted with raindrops. I thought it was snow until I caught some in my eye and found it was ash, from the blown up factory. It was hidden in _Musee de la Vie Romantique, _believe it or not.

I feel like James Bond after his first mission, kinda elated, kinda pissed off, kinda sad, and still missing someone like hell. Mostly I just want to get to the next place.

It still stings and makes my eyes water, the ash. Yeah, just keep telling yourself that _Rickey-boy_, it's nothing to do with Rose crying over you.

I shouldn't feel bad about it. She was crying for Pete as well, and for Jackie. But then, that's Rose and she's the one who left to begin with, and she didn't even have a space to fill, or a real reason. She's always made spaces wherever she wants to be.

And this guy needs looking after, seriously. We both got pissed on the ferry over, but at least I didn't throw up in the van. Maybe the stinging's a little bit for Jake, 'cause he looks like he's an inch from crying himself half the time.

We're sitting in a café waiting for the sun to come up and – get this – I can speak fluent French. Still. I've got a gun and I can speak French, I've saved the whole world from having their brains extracted and I'm waiting for the sun to come over Paris so I can move on to L.A, and I'm up to it. Up for it, whatever. All my life I've wanted to be cool, and this is so it.

And I don't know if I want it anymore. Does that make sense? Have I grown up enough, finally, to stop caring about all that shit? Maybe this is how the Doctor feels, just a bit. And I can see why he needs Rose, so much more than I ever did, if he feels like this all the time.

Ah, well, doesn't matter anyway because I'm going to L.A. Then…the Caribbean. South America. Canada? Italy?

Hang on a minute….

I try it out loud, just testing, and it works. It _works._

"Sorry? You what?"

Jake's eating something greasy with a spoon, and he swallows, curious.

"Was that Spanish? How many languages do you know?"

"S'Italian. I was asking myself if I could speak Italian. In _Italian._" I say numbly, sitting back in my chair. Jake swigs coffee through his teeth and nods. He seems to be used to Rickey doing odd things with enough conviction to get away with it, and assumes I'm the same. And he's not thick, I'm beginning to realise. He just too wired to sleep, exhausted, grief stricken, and under confident. Reminds me of me about…hey, six weeks ago.

He finishes his pastry and then leans forwards, tentatively and balancing on his stool.

"Um…. Can you something again? In Italian, so I can…work it out?"

I smile and lean forward.

"Posso parlare italiano?" I say slowly. He grins, and I'm again surprised at just how easy this is. I was so sure it was going to be like digging a hole in frost covered ground, but I'm sliding into a vacuum Rickey's left for me. Though Jake's never going to get over it, just like I'm never going to get over Rose. But that's ok.

"D'you want more coffee?" he asks, and I raise my eyebrows.

"Are you paying?"

"You're loaded. I was offering to get it for you."

I made myself I sonic credit card. It's a little strip of metal guaranteed to fool any cash-point. The Doctor really shouldn't have let me wander round the TARDIS on my own, I'm probably screwing up history.

"We should get going really. Next factory and all, it's almost dawn…"

"Yeah."

It'd odd being this new person. A million expectations, and most of them from me.

Jake shoves about twenty quid in euros off the table into his back pocket, always the criminal when he can do it without hurting anybody. I smile and follow him into the rain, which is now ash free.

He falls asleep an hour after we start driving. He won't fly, doesn't like to, and I can't blame him after growing up with the zeppelins. I keep driving and I wonder if I should paint the truck blue or yellow. I'm pretty sure it will be blue, even if it's just because yellow is conspicuous. I'll have to ask Jake, because it's his truck really.

I drive until I'm bone tired, blinking, grating my teeth to try and stay awake, and eventually I feel a poke in my shoulder.

"Mickey, we've got to check in somewhere, sleep for a bit." Jake rubs his eyes.

"Nah, I'm alright."

"No, you're not."

A huge yawn makes me close my eyes, and I swear I lose sight of the road for a whole ten seconds.

"…Ok. Maybe you're right."

He gets us to the hotel.

The French bloke behind the counter wants to know what sort of bedroom we want, because he only has one left, with separate beds in. I laugh, a little too long, because I'm knackered.

"Non, nous sommes des amis." I'm still getting a kick out of speaking this, and I reckon is must be a last present from the Doctor. Somehow he must have done something to my head because I never heard myself talking languages before, just English. But it's only fair really, to leave with something; he got Rose.

Jake turns round at the laughter, almost swaying on his feet.

"I know that much, we're friends are we?"

"Is that ok?"

"Sure," and he sort of grins, too tired to argue. He takes the bags up the stairs and I stay to settle up and ask for a call at three p.m.. I've got a feeling once we sleep we won't budge for while.

The Frenchman asks me again what our relationship is, smirking, the bastard. France is another planet in this universe, apparently.

"Honnêtement, nous sommes des amis. Compagnons."

I take the key from him, and wait until he disappears into a backroom before mounting the stairs.

I say it again, under my breath.

"Companions."


End file.
